


Stuck in the Middle With You

by ScrapyardWarlocks



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Falling In Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prison, canon events without meeting, cellmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrapyardWarlocks/pseuds/ScrapyardWarlocks
Summary: Ian is dreading his two-year stint in prison after lighting up a van. Mickey isn't thrilled about returning to prison after ratting out a drug cartel in Mexico. However, sometimes reality can miraculously exceed expectations.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mandy Milkovich & Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. All In Shim's Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Hello:) This is the very first work of fiction I've voluntarily written like... ever. I just couldn't get this idea out of my head, and this fandom has inspired me to put my own stuff out there. PLEASE please please let me know what you think!

“I plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”

The uproar was instantaneous. All at once, Ian saved his own life, and The Church of Gay Jesus lost their precious martyr.

Ian might’ve been off his meds, but he hadn’t felt this clear-minded in a long time. He knew he made the right decision when he saw the obvious relief on his family’s faces. Serving two years for blowing up a van was the best they could’ve hoped for.

To his disciples, though, Ian had just betrayed the “Gay Jesus” agenda because he wasn't willing to go to trial to draw media attention. They didn’t care that he just shaved eight years off his sentence for being honest. He was just a symbol for their movement, not a human being capable of fucking up or deserving freedom. He wasn’t surprised when none of them cared enough to show up and bid him farewell.

Even though Ian was proud of some of the changes they were able to make in queer communities, Ian was disturbed about what the movement had evolved into. They chose to take his mania-fueled behavior and turn it into an example to be followed. Hearing about the movement he created was impressive, but his followers had done some pretty messed up shit like blowing up vans all over the country, and even a couple of churches. Ian had no doubt that he caused many others to face prison time for arson, and maybe even worse charges.

Ian was scared of himself when he was manic. When his bipolar disorder first started rearing its ugly head, he signed up for the army with a fake ID, crashed a helicopter, became a stripper, started a torrid affair with hard drugs, and fucked every swinging dick he saw. His family decided it was enough when he kidnapped Amy and Jemma and decided to go on a road trip when they mentioned putting him in a psych ward. Ian was ashamed that he let himself go down that path again, let himself forget that the wonderful high of mania only preceded a heavy downfall of despair and destruction. He wasn’t quite Hurricane Monica yet, but he was certainly a tropical storm.

Ian couldn’t ignore taking his meds this time if he wanted to actually heal and evolve into a contributing member of society. He couldn’t let himself run away with crazy ideas that could hurt himself, his family, or even well-meaning strangers.

Ian’s short time in jail before he was bailed out had been invigorating and inspiring only because he let his mania take control. How will he handle it when he’s in an even _more_ dangerous environment with no disorder giving him unwarranted confidence? Fuck, he kinda wants to run away all over again. Hell, he'd dyed his hair black for a reason.

Antonio, a friend of someone he helped in jail, was a Godsend (if Shim still gave a shit about giving him signs). He taught Ian what and who to avoid at Beckman Correctional, emphasizing the importance of staying in the “Disneyland” zone of safe drugs and good dick. Thanks to him, Ian got over his desire to bolt and never see Chicago again (who knows, maybe Mexico could’ve been fun).

Truthfully, Ian was still scared shitless of what was waiting for him on the inside. The prisoners would know what he did and who he was right away. His face was plastered on gay liberation t-shirts and banners for fuck’s sake, of course they were gonna fucking recognize him. Even though the inmates in jail seemed to respect his authority, there was no guarantee that prison would be the same. He heard that a lot of well-known Neo-Nazis populated the prison yard, and they liked to jerk-off to a good fag bashing. Yeah, everyone sucked dick in prison, but living as a homo on the _outside_? Bit of a different story.

Ian could only rely on himself stay safe. He hadn’t heard a peep from Shim for weeks, and he was starting to suspect that maybe it was just his mania talking. Ian speculated that was a little more likely than being the next prophet.

Ian had gotten used to relying on his family over the years. He could turn to one of his siblings to fight in his corner if shit ever went sideways. He was going to miss all of them, especially Lip. Who was he going to vent to or share a smoke with when he needed some support? Ian’s never had someone who cared about him as much as Lip did, not even his previous boyfriends. Maybe he’ll make a friend or two in prison, but it won’t be the same.

Ian said a final goodbye to his family (sans Fiona) and walked proudly towards his inevitable fate. He immediately slipped on an intimidating façade, his newly dyed black hair making him feel like he was playing a character. A guy who knew how to use a shank. A guy who didn’t know what the word fear meant. A guy who laughed in the face of murderers. He hoped that was enough.

Ian paraded through the horde of prisoners, all of whom were staring at and whispering about the fresh meat. After guiding him inside, the guard unceremoniously slammed the cell door behind him. Ian had a little time to poke around before his cellmate showed up. He noticed that the bottom bunk was already claimed, the sheets strewn messily on the bed and several sketches haphazardly taped to the wall. Ian took his folded bundle and placed it on the top mattress.

“Fuck” Ian muttered under his breath. He planted his hands on the bed frame and let his eyes glaze over as he started at the blank wall.

A couple of minutes later, he heard the cell door slide open and close again. Ian pushed himself up to turn around, steeling himself to meet the guy he was forced to share a confined space with for the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to update fairly quickly, but I'm in college, so don't expect too much of me. The next chapter is Mickey's POV!


	2. Chicago or Bust

It’s a Tuesday morning when Mickey’s burner phone rings for the very first time. Mickey never thought he’d hear it ring, even though he managed to send it to Mandy with a note, just in case she was in any imminent danger.

“Mick! Mick! Holy shit! The bastard’s finally dead!” Mickey jerked the phone away from his ear as Mandy yelled through the speaker.

“Mandy? Hold on, bitch, slow down. I just woke up.” Mickey stumbles out of bed, furiously rubbing his eyes before he continues. “You talking about Terry? How the fuck did that happen?”

“The son of a bitch was dumb enough to shoot himself while cleaning his gun. Walked in the kitchen and saw blood and guts _everywhere_. It was fucking awesome.”

“Huh.” Mickey’s shoulders slumped as the news washed over him. Terry’s finally kicked it. The source of all that angst and hardship gone with just an accidental slip of a finger.

“Now that he’s dead, just come home, you dick. You’re not gonna see his rat face ever again, and I _know_ that’s the real reason that you left Chicago in the first place.”

“Uh, you do realize that I’m being hunted by the _Feds_ , right? I can’t just ‘come home.’ They’ll add years to my sentence for escaping! How fucking dumb do you think I am?!”

“It’s not dumb. You’ll be back in Chicago, where you belong. I just moved back too. We can finally see each other in person again!” Mandy seemed a little too excited to see her brother behind bars for Mickey’s taste.

“Oh yeah, sounds great” Mickey nods, dripping with sarcasm. “I’m so fucking excited to turn myself in, get thrown into maximum security prison, and slowly die of boredom while I talk to you through a pane of glass whenever you bother to show up.”

Mandy takes a deep breath. “Mick, come _on_. I really miss you. Also, I know you. There’s no way you actually wanna speak Spanish and be some lackey to a drug lord. You fucking hate having a boss, and…”

Mickey cut her off, done with her pleading. “Ok, ok. Fine. I’ll think about it. There. You happy?”

Mickey can practically hear her eyeroll through the phone. “Jesus, fine. Just call me when you’re back in Chicago.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bye skank.” Mickey hangs up before Mandy has a chance to respond. He throws the phone onto the bed before he sits back down and thinks about what Mandy said.

It almost seemed poetic, how quickly his main source of suffering throughout his whole life just… disappeared in an instant of stupidity. Even thousands of miles away, Mickey felt the weight of Terry’s gaze evaporate, giving a new lightness to his shoulders that he’s never really experienced before.

Even though he didn’t want to admit it, Mandy was right. Mickey fucking hated working for the Sinaloa Cartel. He only spoke a few words of Spanish, so he could only deal to the uppity white tourists who wanted party favors. Admittedly, just knowing five variations of “fuck you” doesn’t get you very far.

Mickey was used to being the baddest on the block. People on the Southside knew to stay out of his way just because of his last name, carrying the title of the smartest Milkovich. Mickey didn’t have any of that power in Mexico. He was at the bottom of the totem pole, just a puppet that could either obediently dance or get shot in the face. The other members of the cartel would make fun of him right to his fucking face in Spanish, and there was nothing he could do. Mickey had never felt so pathetic and useless in his life.

Sure, it was nice to remake his identity. He could fuck any anonymous dude he wanted without worrying that the information would get back to his dad. Mickey hadn’t gotten enough as a teenager, so he made up for it now while he had freedom. But was it worth it? There were guys he could fuck in prison, even though he had to top.

Escaping seemed like a good idea at the time. There was always a small possibility that Terry would show up at the prison yard one day after inevitably screwing up again, and Mickey didn’t want to be around to see that shit play out. Drunk Terry in his own house, he could handle. Sober Terry with his prison friends and no guns? Bit of a different story.

Damon, his cellmate, made it sound so fucking easy to escape. Just seduce a guard to let them out (Mickey could be charming when he wanted to be, fuck you very much) and get in contact with Damon’s buddies to help them cross the border. He offered him an escape from endless boredom and the threat of his dad; it seemed like a no-brainer.

After all the shit he’s had to go through since he escaped, Mickey’s not so sure anymore. It would be nice to just confess to the Feds instead of running from them all the time. It would be nice to get a little respect back, even if it’s in prison. It would be nice to eventually live in the Southside without worrying about Terry.

Mickey took less than twenty-four hours to decide what to do, and about a week to follow through with his plan. He recorded all his phone calls, wrote down his superiors’ addresses, and stole plans about the next big drug run the cartel was planning. If Mickey was going down, he was gonna bring those fuckers down with him. He also suspected that the Feds would be more lenient with his sentence if he ratted them out.

Mickey was gonna miss the small number of freedoms he had on the outside: booze, drugs, anonymous dick, his own room, fruit. He wasn’t excited to slip into the same, boring routine again because there wasn’t much to do in the joint besides working out and drawing (Mickey would never stoop to reading… that’s just too far). But at this point, it seemed miles better than the hellhole alternative he was in at the moment.

After a speedy trial, he got dropped off at Beckman Correctional. Mickey wasn’t too happy to see those barbed-wire fences again, but he was at least comforted to know that his sentence was reduced from fifteen years to a measly two and a half.

His cellmate wasn’t obnoxiously loud or a pedo, so he was fine. Aaron rarely spoke to him, and Mickey was kind enough to return the favor. Mickey spent his days drawing, working in the laundry room, lifting weights, and playing dominoes with some prison acquaintances.

He didn’t even blink an eye when someone told him Aaron was up for probation about six months later. Sure, Mickey’s life would change a little with a new face, but not enough to shake up the prison routine that had become his new norm.

Opening the sliding door to meet his new cellmate, he expected to face yet another mind-numbing day with a silent upstairs neighbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhkay. "Fairly quickly" apparently means about a month for me. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


End file.
